Memories.

When something special is over, what's left are the memories. I suppose there will be the photographs. But this photograph is a bit sad. Its the fading footprint of what was a wonderful weekend in our garden. The last peg and bag of rubbish has been cleared and the marquee has been dismantled, and now stands somewhere else. The mosaic of green shades shows up the dance floor which lay there for an extra day. In another week, when the grass has grown and been mowed, the lawn will be as if no wedding reception and party ever took place. Weeks of preparation and anticipation. Then joy and fulfilment. And now its almost gone. When Tim and Adrienne are back from honeymoon, they will have to buy us a tree, just as Edward and Karen did.

Much of human existence is like that. A man's life involves perhaps two decades of preparation, with maybe another 50 years or so before the marquee is pulled down, and gradually all trace of his existence fades away. The same applies to political careers - unless your name is Mike German, in which case you go on and on and on. (How much longer until Peter Black lobs another grenade into the great pianist's orchestra pit?) For some of course, its all preparation. Take Gordon Brown. "Please do", scream Labour MPs! The marquee, which took so long to build just didn't hold water, and collapsed in the first big rainfall. That's the thing about life and living things. They have an end.

But there are memories. And if the day was special, its the good ones that will last. It was a wonderful day.